


Flood Tide

by mizzmarvel



Category: Baby-Sitters Club - Ann M. Martin
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-25
Updated: 2005-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-19 03:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mizzmarvel/pseuds/mizzmarvel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeff misses the beach.  Byron tries to give him the best he's got.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flood Tide

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Jeff, Byron, or the Baby-Sitters Club series, and make no money in writing this. Thank you to for the new blood and perspective, and to , for always pushing me when I have better things to do.
> 
> This has nothing to do with "Blue."

Some people think it’s strange that Jeff gets more homesick as the warm weather rolls in, but Byron understands. The freezing air, ice, snow, frost on the windows – it’s a different world from southern California, a place that is always mild, lazy, rolling with thick ocean breeze and fixing the very shape of Jeff’s soul. But when the clouds break and the sun shines hot, how heartbreaking is that, so close, so far? No wonder Jeff is listless, pale despite the clear skies, hair almost white, completely not himself.

He watches Jeff sleep for hours in a warm, sunny spot under a window, like a cat, but he’s never peaceful, always twitching, frowning.

So Byron does some fast-talking. He does not talk often, preferring to let himself be drowned out by his siblings, louder and less patient than he. But when he does talk, he has discovered, people are surprised enough to listen – his parents first, sighing a little, nodding, then Jeff’s, who smile, and finally Jeff.

That is how, on the first day of spring break, Byron ends up with the spare car, driving him and Jeff all the way to Sea City. He misses home, Byron reasoned, argued. So maybe the beach – the beach –

It is not an easy drive. Byron has never made it on his own, never had to contend with the questionable driving of countless college students on their own break. They are both quiet the whole way there, Jeff uncharacteristically, Byron as normal. There is one request for a restroom stop, another to turn off the radio, and that’s that. There is no stop at Howard Johnson’s, no shout for the first sighting of the Coppertone Sun Girl billboard. Just Jeff, staring out the window, and Byron, tapping the wheel nervously.

They stop at the cheap motel room they’ve booked – no gingerbread house this time, not enough people, not enough money – and drop off their things. They change into their swim trunks, awkwardly, a little shyly when they shouldn’t be, turning their backs to each other to shuck off their pants. Then there is the walk down to the shore, just a few minutes away, all the way down to where the water is just licking at the sand.

The two of them stare for a few long minutes, Byron at Jeff, Jeff at the sea.

"How is it?" Byron asks finally, voice weak, but perhaps it is just lost a little in the boom of the waves. "Is it like home?"

Jeff shrugs, still looking out over the whitecaps, squinting. "Not really. It’s okay."

They both stand side-by-side for a few moments longer before Jeff turns, face still toward the ocean, and begins a slow walk along the shore. Byron watches still, frozen, then steps out into the water, which laps at his ankles, his shins, his knees.

It is not okay. This is him trying his best to make things better. This is trying to help Jeff, make him happy again, make him smile. This is Byron introducing him to his own childhood, the part that came before Jeff, telling him that he’s part of his family. And this is _failing_.

Doesn’t the water look the same, the sand, the gulls? But then, Jeff would be the one to know.

Byron is so miserable, deep in his own mind, that he does not notice the waves gathering, gaining volume, until one catches him in the face and soaks his entire torso, shoulder to hip. He stalks back to the sand and sits down heavily, cursing.

He watches the sun sink down lower and lower, falling into the ocean, and does not see Jeff come back and sit beside him so much as feel him, hear the scattering of sand and a contented sigh.

He turns, blinks. "Hi."

Jeff doesn’t answer, but leans in, pressing his face against Byron’s salty shoulder in an armless hug, nuzzling, and licks. Byron yelps, shakes with an involuntary shiver, then shivers again when Jeff pulls back, wetting his lips and smiling.

"There," Jeff says, and it’s his own voice again, not some ghost’s. "That’s home," and moves in for a proper kiss.

"Oh," Byron murmurs, and it doesn’t matter if the sound is lost to the sea.

**Author's Note:**

> Flood tide is the time between low and high tide. Makes sense to me, nyeah.


End file.
